Page 13 of The Mafia Enforcer's Temptation
“We’re aware,” Giovanni says tightly.
“We kept your party from ending in a bloodbath, and considering your lack of security, hiring us was a smart move. The bomb that went off was more for distraction. Homemade, minimal skill involved.” Cal looks at me for affirmation.
I nod. “Fireworks going wrong was an inspired choice of cover.”
That definitely came from Callahan. He hasn’t brought our operation to the point where our power and money makes us a real player on the field without thinking outside the box.
But since they’re here, and since I’m not convinced that it was the Lev group who attacked, I decide to reveal the name one of the dead men mentioned.
I don’t like that I didn’t check the ankles, even though I never do. I don’t know any gangs who tattoo like that. Still…
My gaze shifts from Assisi to Romanov. “Who’s Hank?” Not one flicker of emotion. “Hank. One of these fucks said the name before he went and met his maker. So I ask again. Anyone in here know a Hank or some variation of it?”
Now they both frown. But their faces are blank.
Shit, maybe this Lev group or some other mishmash of disgruntled gangsters with little dicks decided to try to break the alliance up before it started.
Maybe Hank’s a code word.
I don’t fucking know.
“We done here?” Callahan asks as he straightens up and grinds out his cigarette butt on the floor, which isn’t very civil of him, but that’s my brother for you.
“We’re done. You held up your end of the bargain.”
Callahan nods. “And that’s it? We don’t want any trouble. We have our own thing and you both have yours.”
“Any trouble,” Romanov says, “and we’ll stand up for you.”
“Anytime,” Assisi adds.
But Cal just levels them with a stare as the phone in my pocket buzzes. “We can handle ourselves, but this job is done, just so we’re all on the same page.”
They all shake hands, and we leave. Callahan doesn’t say a thing until we get off the mansion grounds and into our car. I slide into the driver’s seat and check the notification on my phone. Torin sent me the tracking information for my escapee.
“You think there’s going to be trouble?” I ask as I pull away from the curb.
Callahan closes his eyes and leans back against the leather headrest. “One thing in this game is always a constant… there’s always trouble around the fucking corner.”
And we’ve been in it our whole lives, from Ireland to New York.
I know he’s right.
I drive back to Manhattan to drop him off at his new home. It’s next door to the first brownstone we bought. We’re slowly transitioning it into our workspace, but with the new building purchased, we’ll have our own complex with enough room for all of us to live in and have our space. The Murphys are poised for a new step forward.
So yeah, I’m betting there’s going to be trouble from this in some way.
I want to say it’s no longer my business. But it is.
Because I suspect it has red lips, black hair, and a killer fucking attitude.
The tracker goes dead when I pull up to the sidewalk on the Lower East Side. From the high-tech tracking info I received from Torin, I can pick out which floor she’s on in the old, run-down building.
The place surprises me. It doesn’t fit her at all.
She might fight like Clawzilla, our vicious cat, with those sharp teeth and talons, but she’s also got that regal mafia or bratva princess air about her.
That was evident when I caught her in the gold dress in the foyer. The way she looked at me like I was dirt, a bug to crush, and yet something she wanted at the same time.
